People

In my opinion the man in the blog post today was a certified, genuine ‘character’.  He was the type who made some kind of impression, good or bad, on everyone who met him. 

In the early 1980s we built several, four-unit apartment buildings for a group of investors; we would be the general contractor and hire sub-contractors for the skilled trade construction.  We eventually assembled a crew of 15 to 20 carpenters and laborers to erect the basic wood-frame structures. 

One day Glen walked onto the job site.  In his mid-forties, average height, very tanned, thin build and wiry, he was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and a leather tool pouch slung low around his waist.  In his right hand he carried a long-handled, 32-ounce carpenter’s framing hammer.  He said he was looking for a job. 

In the ensuing decade Glen and I would develop a tenuous, yet lingering, relationship.  We could never become really close friends as Glen would not be capable of that, but he could be sometimes friendly enough as he had a good sense of humor, but always a bit distant.  And he at times was subject to disappearing without notice, his addiction to alcohol driving him away from possible friendships.  He never showed up to work intoxicated, and strangely enough, he never let me see him drinking, or falling down drunk.  He had those bouts away from us, in his home area across the river, and I would hear about it later.

When I started building an addition to our office, Glen came to me asking about helping me work on the project.  So, I put him to work.  In the days before power nailing machines were in common use, he loved driving nails with his 32-ounce hammer.  While most carpenters used the standard 28-ounce hammer, he would show off driving 3-inch framing nails with one blow from his heavy weight hammer.  He thrived on impressing people with what he could do.  At times he could be an insufferable bore.  His negative attitude about most everything turned people away from him, and he was prone to speak with clipped sarcasm or, very often, just ignoring people. 

When he was in town working for me, he would sleep for three or four hours each night in an unused building down the street.  It was across from a 24-hour grocery and deli where he was a frequent visitor, and he had succeeded in insulting everyone who worked there, day or night shift.  One morning I stopped at the store for some supplies, and as I finished paying, the clerk leaned over the counter, covered her mouth, and mumbled some words.  She was trying to warn me about a man seated over in the deli area reading the newspaper.  She cautioned me to keep a safe distance from this guy as he was probably dangerous and not to be trusted.  I nodded my head slightly and left the store, not giving her a hint that I knew that ‘bad’ man who had been working for me for several years.

Glen did most of his drinking in his home town across the river a few miles away, where he was well known to the local constables.  They would pick him up for sleeping in public, and let him spend the night in their jail.  At least once he was charged with DUI, asleep in his car on the side of the road.

One day we were working together on the building, and near lunch time he asked me if I liked beanie weenies.  He led me to his car, opened the massive trunk, and showed me what he was offering for lunch – a couple hundred cans of beanie weenies.  “They feed you real good at the jail across the river” was his explanation.

Over the years I came to learn a little of Glen’s history and relatives.  His family despaired of Glen’s choices, his behavior, and the course his life had taken.  His sister had a civil service desk job working for the army, and she was married to a well-known preacher in town.  There were other relatives, all of whom struggled to understand Glen, they called him their ‘black sheep’ and, to them, he was hopeless. 

His early life probably shaped most of his later decisions.  When he was very young, he fell on his head and had unknown brain damage.  When he was eight years old, he was caught in a fire and suffered severe burns.  Sometimes I would ask, but he never would talk much about his parents.

At times I questioned myself why I kept Glen around.  Some days were frustrating to say the least.  Occasionally, I would remind him that he needed to get his life in order, but I never made a big deal about it.  Sometimes I would mention him for prayer at church.  On rare occasions he would spend the weekend in town and ride to church with us on Sunday morning. 

Then one summer Sunday, we were about to start the evening church service, a casual meeting which we held in the Fellowship Hall, maybe thirty people in attendance, Glen walked in the door.  He was dressed in what appeared to be a new suit of clothes, white shirt and tie, shined shoes.  He looked a bit out of place with the others casually dressed, but I’m not sure he noticed.  He was swamped by everyone there as though they were his best friends.  We had some brief devotions and a prayer service.  Some of the men gathered around Glen, thanking him for coming, and we had serious prayer with him. 

When I closed the prayer around Glen that Sunday evening I prayed for his forgiveness, that this would be his day to start over again, and everything would be new in his life.  I did not hear Glen pray out loud.  But I did know he had dressed up for something, and I did know he came to church, uninvited, for a reason, and I know he stood with us for prayer.  When we left there, I told Glen things were different now, and he grinned at me with a nod of agreement.  As we were all leaving, a few people asked me privately if Glen’s face was always as red as it was on this evening, as it appeared to be much more than sunburn. 

The next morning when I got to the office about eight there were a couple people there to break the news.  Apparently, Glen had been walking along the street that morning from the store toward the office, when he suffered either a heart attack or stroke.  He was found dead, lying in the grass beside the sidewalk. 

That afternoon I shared a phone call with Glen’s sister, telling her of the previous Sunday evening, about how he came to church by himself, dressed up for a special occasion, and about the prayer time we had.  She was ecstatic to hear this news, never expecting anything like this about her ‘black sheep’, hopeless brother. 

She shared my story with her family, and they asked me to come to the funeral home across the river, and share a few words with the family.  As I spoke with that small group at the funeral home, I repeated what I told his sister.  And I explained to them how convinced I was that Glen had passed from this life to the next a different man than the one they had known for many years.  This funeral was very much different than the funeral they were dreading to have for Glen.  There were a lot of tears that day, tears of joy.